But it was ever so—scarcely did I begin to adapt myself to circumstances, scarcely had a dream done me good, when it faded again.
In vain to complain! I now lived in a fire of unstilled desires, of tense expectation, which often rendered me completely wild and mad.
I frequently saw before me the picture of my dream-mistress with extraordinary clearness, much more clearly than I saw my own hand.
I spoke to it, wept over it, cursed it. I called it mother and knelt before it in tears.
I called it my beloved and felt its ripe kiss of fulfilled desire. I called it devil and whore, vampire and murderer.
It invited me to the tenderest dreams of love and to the most horrible abominations—
nothing was too good and precious for it, nothing too bad and vile.
I passed the whole of that winter in a state of inward tumult difficult to describe.
I had long been accustomed to loneliness—that did not depress me.
I lived with Demian, with the hawk, with my picture of the big dream-figure, which was my fate and my mistress.
It sufficed to live in close communion with those things, since they opened up a large and broad perspective, leading to Abraxas.
But I was not able to summon up these dreams, these thoughts, at will.
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